


Dinner and a Show

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dramatic Irony, Humiliation, Infidelity, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Semi-Public Sex, tfw what you need is therapy but what you get is sex with psychopaths, tiniest mention of vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 18:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10622271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Robb and Theon go to dinner at the Boltons'.They also lie to each other.





	

This house is full of dead animals, hunted and stuffed and mounted on the walls, trophies. At the moment Theon feels like one of them, like a trophy, like a tight piece of ass in his black skinny jeans and his half-done up shirt, hanging on Robb's arm to be shown off. Of course Robb doesn't think of him like that, that's not him. Besides, Mr. Bolton hardly seems to be the type to be impressed by such things.

He picks at the roast pork on his plate, a piece of crackling snapping between his teeth, and he's never really liked pork but he doesn't want to be a bother – they say pork is the meat that tastes most like human flesh. Across the table he makes eyes with the other Mr. Bolton, the boy, his son Ramsay, and apparently there used to be another son, but Theon has no idea what happened to him. Ramsay has no qualms about the taste of pork – he stuffs into his mouth greedily as he grins at Theon, grease dripping down his chin.

Theon is already hard beneath the table, because of course he is, because he's such a desperate, pathetic slut.

“Mr. Stark,” Mr. Bolton says quietly, showing the bare minimum of respect he must, because even if Robb is barely more than a boy he is technically Bolton's boss ever since the real Mr. Stark carked it right out of nowhere, another thing the perfect Robb Stark just had handed to him without any effort on his part (or, for that matter, any concern over whether he actually wanted it). “Would you mind stepping out with me into the garden for a moment? There are some matters I think we should discuss privately.”

Robb hesitates a moment, but then gives a brisk nod. As he and Mr. Bolton get up, Theon, feeling sick to his stomach, smirks at Ramsay across the table. He knows how this goes. The same way it always goes.

* * *

They don't speak in the garden, because Mr. Bolton – Roose, Robb is trying to force himself to call the man Roose, as if they are equals, and technically he is Bolton's superior – is not the sort of man to make idle small talk. They both know why they're here. It's a warm summer's night, and Robb strains his ear to try and hear things, the chirp of crickets or the hoot of owls, but there's nothing. It's like nothing can actually live in this garden. There are two fountains, frightening grey gargoyles of the sort Bran would claim could come alive at night and eat them up, but neither of them runs with water.

Robb wishes Roose would start it, not put him through his agonised wait, but he knows he never will. It must be Robb who starts. It must be him who asks. Robb doesn't know why, but that's very important.

“Roose,” he says, forcing himself to meet the man's terrifying icy eyes, wringing his hands together, “could we – stop for a minute?”

The man stares at him a while, his face glanced by something that, for him, could pass for a smile. “Of course, Mr. Stark,” he says. “But first: take off your clothes.”

* * *

Ramsay takes him to the kitchen, bends him over the counter without even bothering to clear the leftovers away first. _Please don't make me come on our fucking dinner._ “Filthy bitch,” he snarls, digging his nails into Theon's hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Saw the way you were looking at me all night, like you could barely keep my cock out of your mouth. What would your precious little boyfriend think if he knew what a dirty cheating slut you are?”

Theon moans as Ramsay grinds his hard cock against his arse, leaning into it, into the heat and the smell, Ramsay's smell, all sweat and Lynx body spray. He's such a fucking teenage boy, it's pathetic and disgusting, and Theon has been thinking about his cock all night. Because that's what he's like, because he's a worthless whore who can't go an hour without getting his arse reamed, by someone, by anyone. Something like that anyway.

“Yeah, that's right, mewl for me bitch,” Ramsay spits, and Theon thinks that might be a mixed metaphor. “You love my cock, don't you? Don't worry. I'm gonna fuck you like little Robb Stark never could.”

_Not could,_ Theon thinks as his jeans fall down to his ankles, revealing no underwear beneath, _would._

* * *

Robb's clothes are in are folded in a pile to their left, looking so neat you'd be forgiven for forgetting they're lying in the dirt, and Robb whines as he falls into his hands and knees, naked as the day he was born. He already feels like he's on the edge of tears, but he always feels like that, like a jug filled to the brim and if one more drop hits him he'll fall and spill it all. And yet drop after drop comes and he stays the same, keeps it all inside, no matter how he tries.

The other man's clothes never come off, but Robb hears the zip of fine woollen slacks being undone, and then feels strangely soft hands parting his cheeks, and something hard and warm – not hot, not hot enough, but warm – rubbing between them. Robb moans and buries his fists in the grass, trying to thrust back into the movement, but he gets no indication he's even been noticed. It's slow, punishingly slow, until Robb sobs with desperation, with the need to feel something, anything.

“Mr. Bolton,” he says, because he can't pretend they are equals now, can't pretend to be anything but the helpless bitch he is, “fuck me, please.”

He hears a huff that could be irritation, could be amusement, but either way, nothing changes. Robb sobs again. He knows it would hurt, if Bolton really did choose to take him here and now, but he needs it. He always needs it. And he never, ever gets it. He wails as he digs his fingers into the ground, dirt getting beneath his nails. He wants to be dirty. His dreams are all cheap and nasty, cliché, mewling _daddy_ as he's skewered on an older man's cock. Bolton would never do that to him, he knows. The man is too smart for that.

“Oh please,” he whines again, lost in his need, “Mr. Bolton, please, _hurt me_.”

Because that's what he needs, really, to hurt, because he hates himself for this, hates himself for wanting this, hates himself for doing this to Theon, who needs him so badly, and he needs to feel punished. He needs someone to treat him like he's just as worthless as he knows he is.

Bolton knows that, of course, and so he doles out the cruellest punishment he could possibly devise:

He doesn't hurt him at all.

* * *

Ramsay lubes him up with olive oil, of all things; extra-virgin too and that shit's expensive, it's quite a waste – after all, Theon can hardly describe himself as extra-virgin – especially when Theon's still half-slick from when Robb fucked him just before they came over here. Still, he moans when Ramsay drives two fingers straight into him, rough and impatient, and it fucking hurts but Theon knows they both get off on that, since they're both sick fucks.

He looks into a meat cleaver still lying on the bench and sees the gleam in Ramsay's eyes as he looks around the room, full of knives, metal, a firestarter, all sorts of things that could be used to hurt someone. A spark of fear and lust goes up Theon's spine. _He'd kill me if he could._ Ramsay's a deranged sadist, that much you can just smell on him, and Theon knows he's putting himself in way more danger than this is worth – but Robb and Mr. Bolton have to come back eventually, so how much danger can he really be in?

“Yeah, that's right,” says Ramsay as he drives his cock hard into Theon, burying it all in one deep thrust, and Theon bites his tongue to try and smother a scream (he fails). “Fucking love that, don't you? Love your daddy's cock. Tell me who your daddy is, baby.”

Theon's spent enough of his life pining after father figures to know this boy isn't one at all; Robb is more of one, and he's a couple of months younger than Ramsay, but Theon still mewls and pushes himself back onto that thick cock. “You're my daddy,” he mutters, and sees Ramsay's grin in the clever just before the boy starts fucking him hard and fast as a reward. “Oh fuck!”

“Yeah, that's right. You're mine, bitch,” Ramsay says, and Theon wants to deny it but it probably is true. “That little boyfriend of yours doesn't know who you really are. I can see it on him, he treats you like a princess, doesn't he? But that's not what you need. I'm the one who fucks you like you want it, like you're worthless.”

_You're the one who fucks me like I deserve._ Ramsay's right, that's the thing, and that's why Theon keeps coming back. He's not even very good in bed, but he's a ugly sick fuck who gets off on hurting other people, and that's what Theon deserves. He doesn't deserve Robb, sweet perfect Robb who's never known what it's like to hate everything, to hate yourself, whose always thought there was so much more good in Theon than there actually is. Theon can only imagine what he would think if he knew the truth. He wonders if he wants him to.

* * *

Mr. Bolton must get sick of his whining after awhile because he finds himself guided back up, onto his knees, and his mouth guided onto Bolton's cock. Robb moans and takes it to the back of his throat, buries his nose in the fine dark hair even as he chokes and gags, because he is so grateful.

He wants so much for Bolton to just grab his head and fuck his face, but he knows the man won't. He sucks the man's cock as hard as he can, licks and sobs and slurps around it; he squeezes the man's thighs, sucks his balls, even tries to finger his arse one or twice, _anything_ to get a reaction, but nothing works. It's like trying to suck off a statue. But Robb can't stop, with his throat aching and screaming from this abuse as Robb smashes it down over the head of Bolton's cock again and again again, even as he feels a trail of what could be vomit sneaking from his mouth, because Bolton won't hurt and humiliate him like he needs, but he'll let Robb hurt himself, let him humiliate himself, and if that's the most he can get then Robb will take it.

Robb is pathetic, gagging himself on cock while the man it's attached to barely even seems to notice him, rubbing himself on Bolton's leg like a bitch in heat. The garden is surrounded by tall walls and taller hedges, but still, Robb can't help but wonder if someone can see him. He wonders if his father can see him, wherever he is, and the thought makes him sob again. Father never liked Theon, never really approved, but he would hate Robb for doing this to him. But Robb can't ask Theon for this, he just can't, because Theon doesn't know this about him; Theon thinks he's the perfect golden boy, and Theon _needs_ him to be that boy, needs him to be everything pure and whole that nothing else in his life is. Theon needs someone so good to make him feel good, to make him feel loved, and Robb's not that boy, he's never been that boy, but he is a very good liar.

The faintest touch comes to his hair, and Robb looks up to see Bolton staring down at him, eyes cold and blank, and then Robb, sobbing his eyes out and slobbering all over his chin like Grey Wind, who's waiting for Robb and Theon back at their flat, comes rutting against his leg.

* * *

Ramsay never uses condoms and so when he finishes, Theon feels it, dripping out of him when Ramsay pulls his cock out. He feels empty and sore. “Fuck,” whispers Ramsay, swirling a finger around Theon's hole, making him moan softly – he came a little while ago, weak and plaintive. “You like that, don't you, being pumped with my come?”

Like is maybe the wrong word, but still: it reminds him what he is. He nods, and Ramsay chuckles, giving his arse a slap. “Your boyfriend really not going to notice that, you all wet with another man's seed?”

Of course not. Robb never notices anything.

* * *

He finishes Bolton off and swallows it all down, before cleaning his own come off the man's pants with his mouth. It makes him feel sick, but not sick enough to actually throw up. That might be a relief.

Once he's done he's a wreck, sitting there shaking and sobbing, naked and disgraced. Bolton allows that awhile, before Robb feels something pressed beneath his cheek – a hankerchief, the palest pink silk edged with white lace, and it doesn't look at all like something Mr. Bolton would own. It looks like something Sansa would own, and Robb doesn't even know if she's met Mr. Bolton, but he wonders if Bolton might have stolen it off her somehow, just to spite him.

“Compose yourself, Robb,” he whispers, wiping away Robb's tears. “You don't want your boyfriend to worry about you.”

* * *

He's squirming in his chair, Ramsay's come leaking down his legs, by the time Robb and Mr. Bolton come back in. It looks like they've been on a good long walk, although Robb seems more tired than Bolton is, and Theon might tease him later for getting out of shape even though he knows Robb could run rings around him any day.

“Hey,” Robb says, breathless, and Theon gives his usual smirk.

“Hey yourself.”

Ramsay and his father don't share hellos, although Ramsay does give him a smug look that makes Mr. Bolton raise an eyebrow, and Theon doesn't know what that's about but he doesn't really care about his bit on the side's daddy issues.

Robb's lips look so perfect and pink, so kissable, and Theon wants to kiss him, he always wants to kiss him – but he doesn't feel like he has the right to tonight. He does manage to grab Robb's hand under the table though, and feels the earth under his nails, raw and natural and _real_. That's Robb all over, and it's not Theon at all, he could never really be who Robb wants. But of course, Robb will never notice.

 


End file.
